


Cheat Day

by SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Belly Kink, Blow Jobs, Chubby Subby Seb, Dom Chris Evans, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Food Porn, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Teasing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, You guys asked for this, complete and utter trash, more tags added as necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris teaches Sebastian about cheat days.  Sebastian takes his advice to heart.  Everyone is very pleased (except perhaps Sebastian's trainer).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the various lovely anons who popped up in our ask boxes requesting that we climb into the RPF dumpster. And a very special thanks to [whowaswillbe](http://www.whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) (AKA [greyskygirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl)), who forever changed all of our lives when she coined the term "Chubby Subby Seb."

“5000 calories a day,” Sebastian mutters as he leaves the meeting room. He unfolds the printed schedule the production team had just handed him and looks at it again, as if the details might have magically rearranged themselves in the short time since he last looked at it. They haven’t. Filming for the two Infinity War movies starts in September, only a few short months away. “I’ve got to be back up to 200 pounds by September. Jesus. I don’t know if I can take it again, man. No wonder you only signed a six-picture deal, this is misery.” 

“Hey it’s not so bad,” Chris says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Better than having to cut. And you gotta love those cheat days, right?”

Sebastian stops walking and stares at him. “Cheat days?” 

“Sure, you know, when you get to eat whatever you want? The best.” 

Sebastian stares at him in complete astonishment. “You got _cheat_ days? I didn’t have that. It was protein and vegetables, nonstop.” 

Chris laughs and shakes his head, putting an arm around Sebastian’s shoulders and squeezing. “What? Man, you gotta talk to your trainer. You can’t go 100% all the time, you’ll burn out. A few little splurges here and there actually helps to keep your metabolism firing, you know?” 

Sebastian hadn’t known. He’d been on a wearying regime of egg whites, chicken breasts, green vegetables, white rice, oatmeal and sweet potatoes with a few shakes and bars thrown in for variety. He’d subsisted on that limited menu for almost five months, and hated every second of it. He’d also had to eat round the clock, had set alarms to wake up at 3 a.m. to get more protein into his system. It had been boring, flavorless and sickening. There had been no cheat days. 

He feels, appropriately, cheated. 

“How come I don’t get cheat days?” he asks his trainer the next day. “Chris gets cheat days. I want cheat days.” 

“No way,” his trainer says. “Chris is a totally different person, a totally different physique and metabolism. And besides, they want you fucking _big_ for this part, if you’re not careful, you’ll just end up looking fat. Think about those reshoots in Atlanta, remember that? How you decided to start eating pizza again and you ended up looking like - like -” the trainer waves his hands around as if he might somehow bat the term out of midair. “What’s that nickname they gave you in China?”

“Chubby Dumpling,” Sebastian sighs resignedly. 

“Exactly. Marvel doesn’t want Chubby Dumpling, Sebby. They want the fucking Winter Soldier, they want you ripped and looking like you can kick ass.” 

“Yeah, I know. But it’s so boring, and we’re going to be shooting for nine months this time. I don’t know if I can do it again.” 

“I know you can do it. You’re gonna look so awesome, remember how stacked your chest was? God, remember your fucking _arms?_ This is going to be great, trust me. You won’t even have time to think about food.” 

Doubtful. Highly doubtful. “Right,” he says. 

“So no cheat days, okay? Just stick to the plan, and everything will be fine. Easy.” 

“Okay,” Seb says. And at the time, he means it, he really does. 

*

He makes it three days into his new regime before he takes his first cheat day. 

He's walking home from the gym when it happens. It’s just a little hole-in-the-wall pizza joint, nothing special, but the smell actually stops him in his tracks. He halts so quickly the man behind him runs into him, cursing. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, stepping into the pizza parlor to get out of the way. And then, since he’s there, and since he’s starving, and since he hasn’t eaten anything with actual flavors for three days, he orders a large Margherita pie and a Coke. 

He’s not going to step out onto the sidewalk and risk a photo getting back to his trainer; he just grabs a stool at the counter and works his way through the whole damn thing right there, and Jesus, it’s fucking glorious. He gets two refills on the Coke, and he’s sipping the last of it when the server brings him a wax paper-lined basket piled with fresh zeppolis. He dusts them with powdered sugar and shoves the basket across the counter. 

“What’s this?” Sebastian asks. “I didn’t order these.” 

“Free with every order on Wednesdays,” the server says, shrugging. 

Sebastian’s a little better than full; this is the first time he really feels like he’s eaten in days, and yeah, he knows he doesn’t really need to wolf down a pound of fried dough on top of everything else. But if this is going to be his cheat day, he figures, he might as well go for it. 

So he does. 

*

“You’re looking good,” Chris says, when they meet for brunch a few weeks later. “Back in the gym already?” 

“Yeah,” Sebastian says. “Three weeks now.” 

“You must be working like an animal, man, your shoulders are already getting huge.” 

“Oh. Um, thanks.” He shifts in his seat, self-conscious.

“I hope you talked to your guy about cheat days, because you’ve got to try the bacon waffles,” Chris adds, taking Sebastian’s menu away and giving it right back to the server. “Two orders of bacon waffles with the works. Thanks.” 

“Bacon waffles?” 

“They put three strips of bacon into the batter while it’s on the iron. You haven’t lived until you’ve had bacon waffles, trust me.” 

“Okay,” Sebastian says. “I trust you.” It’s probably better, he thinks, not to mention that he’s been expressly forbidden to take cheat days, or that he’s already taken three this week. His weight’s already creeping up, he can tell, because his jeans are cutting into his waist and feel much too tight across the seat and thighs – and yeah, his shoulders are bulking up, thanks to all the lifting. So far, so good; his trainer seems pleased with his progress, so no harm done, probably. 

He wavers only slightly when his brunch arrives. Three huge waffles are stacked on one plate, and that by itself would be excessive. But there’s more – a bowl of fruit, a dish of whipped cream, a carafe of maple syrup, along with a glass of orange juice and a little plate of sticky buns and sausages. It’s a lot of food. But hell, he’ll just skip a few of the meals his trainer planned out for him, it’ll be fine. Calories are calories, it probably doesn’t matter if it’s waffles or fish and broccoli. 

By the time he works his way through the waffles, he’s pretty sure he’s done, but then they sit around drinking coffee for a while, and the sticky buns are right there, so he picks one apart and eats it while they chat.

“Oh, good, you’re still hungry,” Chris says, pushing his unfinished plate across the table. “I can’t eat this. Here, you can have it.” 

There’s a whole waffle left on his plate, smothered in whipped cream and syrup. Sebastian eyes it uncertainly. “I can’t eat that,” he says, one hand going to his full stomach. His jeans button is pressing painfully into his skin, he’s so full. 

“Sure you can,” Chris says easily, leaning back in the booth and smiling at him. He’s so handsome it’s ridiculous, and when he smiles, Sebastian swears he can hear someone nearby gasp. “Go on, eat it.” 

Without really thinking about it, Sebastian shrugs and picks up his fork, cuts off a piece of waffle and stuffs it into his mouth. They don’t talk, he just eats, working his way through the whole damn thing in silence. Five minutes later, he groans as he pushes the empty plate away. “Why did I do that?” he asks, leaning back in the booth, both hands on his stomach, which feels round and bloated with food. 

“Cheat day,” Chris says. “You gotta enjoy them. Are Sundays always your cheat day?” 

“Yes,” Sebastian replies. So are Wednesdays – free zeppoli day at the pizzeria – and sometimes Mondays and Fridays, when he has particularly long workouts. But Chris doesn’t need to know about that. 

“Then maybe we should do this again,” Chris says. “What do you say, brunch next Sunday?” 

Sebastian rubs his hand over his achingly full belly and smiles. “Sure,” he says. “See you then.” 

*

One of Chris’s favorite things about Sebastian is this remarkably childlike quality he has. It sounds kind of patronizing—Chris never cops to it, when people ask him in interviews what he thinks of Sebastian or what he’s like to work with or hang out with—but he doesn’t mean it in a bad way. Sebastian’s smart, funny, talented, incredibly well-trained as an actor, all sorts of good, adult shit. But he also views the world in this charmingly innocent way that Chris just fucking loves. It warms his Boston heart every time Sebastian opens his mouth. 

It’s that childlike quality, that innocent perception of a situation, that Chris can’t stop thinking about today, as he sits across from Sebastian in their little booth and listens as Sebastian waxes philosophic about the life-changing wonder that has been the addition of his cheat day. 

While he talks, explaining that Sundays are good and that he has also “eased up” on a few of the “harsher” stipulations during the week, he’s carefully piling butter and syrup onto a beautifully plated array of crepes, pausing once in a while to take a bite of his omelet, which, as far as Chris can tell, looks like no less than four eggs wrapped around a veritable explosion of meat and cheese. He can see ham, sausage, _and_ bacon. 

God, he’s fucking adorable. 

Fucking Sebastian. He looks fantastic, shoulders already picking up that stupidly broad, _thick_ quality they’d had for the last movie, and his chest looks wider, too; but, Chris can’t help but notice, every time Sebastian looks down at the massive amount of food spread out in front of him, that tell-tale little softness at his jaw appears, the ghost of a double chin that, for reasons Chris doesn’t explore too deeply, he can’t quit noticing. It’s just something he’s aware of, after years of knowing Sebastian. His weight fluctuates a lot, and it lands on his face first.

It’s not weird that he knows this about Sebastian. It’s completely obvious. Everyone probably notices. 

The waitress comes by and deposits another bottle of cheap champagne on their table, along with a carafe of orange juice. It’s one of those endless mimosa deals, the kind of brunch thing that always seems like a good idea until you get home at 1:00 in the afternoon and realize you’re ruined for doing anything else the rest of the day. Chris had agreed to it when Sebastian had mentioned it, though; he likes Sebastian after a few drinks, when he’s prone to fits of laughter and, occasionally, inappropriate stories. He barely has a filter to begin with, and the addition of champagne only exacerbates the situation. 

“Thanks,” Chris says, flashing her a smile. She nods, barely giving them a second glance. If she recognizes them, she doesn’t give a shit, for which Chris is supremely grateful. He’s still recovering from the agony of the Civil War press tour; the less that he has to put on his Public Chris Evans Face, the better. 

“So yeah,” Sebastian says, talking around a mouthful of crepes in a way that should probably be kind of disgusting but manages to land this side of charming. “Cheat days. I’m a fan.” 

“Your trainer cool with it?” Chris asks, giving Sebastian his very best Captain America face, all blue eyes and purity. He knows goddamn well, looking at Sebastian, that he’s taking the concept of cheat days to a whole new level, one that his trainer would squelch immediately if he knew. 

“Yeah, yeah. Totally cool with it,” Sebastian says, but Chris doesn’t miss the way his hand drops to his waist and fiddles with the hem of his shirt for a second, the way he fidgets in his seat before pouring another mimosa for himself. 

“That’s good,” Chris says, pushing his own food around on his plate and changing the subject. For reasons he’s not really ready to consider, he suddenly doesn’t want Sebastian to think about his trainer anymore. Just wants him to eat, to smile, to drink too many mimosas until, maybe, his accent comes out just a little, just on certain consonants that get a little blurry. It’s cute—and understandable. Chris never sounds more Boston than when he’s drinking. 

With a single-minded purpose that is, frankly, kind of impressive, Sebastian works through the crepes, the omelet, and a stack of toast that he slathers with butter almost absently, like it never occurs to him that toast can be eaten without copious amounts of butter smeared over it. 

When he’s done, when they’ve drained the second bottle of champagne—which was, to be honest, mostly Sebastian’s handiwork, although Chris had sipped politely at his own glass just to keep him company—and switched to coffee, Chris nudges his plate across the table, just like the week before. 

“You should finish this,” he says. 

Sebastian blinks, looking down at the slices of thick French toast—made from crusty French bread—and sausages that remain on Chris’s plate. 

“I don’t know, man,” he says, leaning back in the booth. “I’m stuffed, I think I’m out.” 

“If you don’t eat it now, you’re gonna regret it,” Chris says lightly, smiling a little. “Tell me you’re not gonna want that a few days from now, when it’s all chicken breast and kale.” 

“Oh, fuck me, give it to me,” Sebastian mutters, tugging the plate over and digging in. 

Chris sits back with his coffee to watch, trying not to think too deeply about what he’s doing. 

*

That night, Sebastian turns down no less than four invitations to go out and do various things with various people. He feels a little guilty; he doesn’t get that much down time, really, and he should hang out with his friends while he can, see people when he has the opportunity. But the thing is, he doesn’t actually get all that much of a chance to just chill in his own home, either. So that’s what he does. And if staying home and parking his ass on his own couch means that he gets to wear basketball shorts with a mercifully elastic waistband that doesn’t make him feel like he’s being cut in half? And he doesn’t have to suck in his tummy or think about what he might look like in a paparazzi shot? All the better. 

He tells himself he’ll get back on track for dinner, even though it’s technically still Sunday Cheat Day. He knows he went pretty hard at brunch this morning—Jesus, his stomach is still a little tender to the touch, and it’s definitely, ah, _not_ flat right now—so grilled chicken and veggies is probably the best course of action. And it’s cool. He’s got that in the fridge, premade and divided up in these annoyingly uniform little Tupperware dishes, just like he’s supposed to have. 

God, he fucking hates them. 

But he’ll eat it, because he’s supposed to, and because it’s his job, and because really, he makes millions upon millions of dollars to do this. Surely he can tolerate boring food for a few months. 

Except that by the time he shuffles into the kitchen and peers into the fridge, he’s sort of actually hungry again, which seems impossible but is somehow true. And since he’s actually hungry, the little Tupperware containers look even worse than he’d imagined. 

But there, right beside them, is a Styrofoam container of leftover lasagna from Friday night—which was not a cheat day, but _was_ a particularly hard workout, and he had needed something more substantial than fucking grilled salmon and rice, damn it. 

Besides, if he doesn’t eat the lasagna tonight, he’ll have to throw it out, and that seems wasteful. 

Bucky wouldn’t waste food, probably. 

Bucky definitely wouldn’t have shitty little Tupperware containers of organic chicken and kale in his goddamn refrigerator. 

He should mention that to the training team. Bucky would eat fucking lasagna. 

Bucky would probably eat Captain America’s leftovers, too, if Captain America smiled at him and pushed them across the table to him, but that’s not something Sebastian is ready to think about. 

*

The assistant slides the scale weight to the right a few notches and makes a note on Sebastian’s chart while his trainer looks on, frowning. 

“I’m thinking maybe we need to ramp you down a little,” he says. “You’re already up more than fifteen pounds, bro. One-nine-oh. Damn.” 

“Yeah, but wasn’t that what we were shooting for? Three pounds a week, right?” 

“Sure, but I didn’t think we’d actually _get_ three pounds a week. It took more than two months to get you here last year.” He glances over the chart again. “You’re not doing anything different, are you? You’re sticking to the plan?” 

Sure he is. Mostly. “Of course,” he says. 

“This is so weird. Look, I’m going to lower you to 4500 for a couple weeks and see how that goes, okay?” 

Sebastian shrugs. “Sure, whatever you say.” 

“Everything else okay? You feel good?” 

“Yeah, I feel great,” which is absolutely true. He feels great in the mornings, after effectively carb-loading the night before. He feels great on Wednesday afternoons, when he gets a nice sugar high from the Coke and pizza and zeppolis at the pizza place down the street. 

He feels great when Chris pushes his plate across the table each Sunday, meets his eyes, and tells him he should finish his leftovers. 

His brain skitters nervously away from that thought, and he steps backward off the scale. 

“I’ll be right back. I’m just going to go print out your meal plan for the week, okay? Marta can update your measurements.” He disappears into his office, and the assistant, Marta, unloops the measuring tape from around her neck. 

“Ready?” she asks, and he nods, holds up his arms so she can slip the tape around his chest. “Forty-five inches – that’s good. Waist is 36, hips…35. That can’t be right,” she says, looping the tape around his waist again and frowning down at the two overlapping ends. “What were you last year?” she flips through the folder containing all his prior paperwork, and frowns some more. 

“I had a really big breakfast,” he says. “That’s probably it.”

She shoots him a skeptical glance. “Yeah, but that’s a whole inch bigger than you were last year, at your heaviest,” she says. She pinches a little fold of flesh at his waist. “I’m thinking maybe we need to do some body composition testing, just in case.” She taps her computer awake and pulls up a calendar. “We can get you in for that in two weeks, would that work?” 

“Are you sure it’s necessary? I didn’t have to do it last time.” 

She eyes his waist critically and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Pretty sure.” 

*

“What’s the matter, Seb?” Chris asks, after they’ve been sitting at the table for twenty minutes. Sebastian’s been pushing his steak and eggs around with his fork, but he’s barely eaten a thing. Plus, there’s a huge basket of cheddar pepper biscuits on the table, and he hasn’t even looked at them. 

“Nothing,” Sebastian says, and he gives a little half-smile that’s so incredibly Bucky Barnes that Chris feels a little pang in his heart.

“C’mon, it’s gotta be something. You’ve barely touched your food, what’s going on? You can tell me.” 

Seb tries the smile again but it’s only worse the second time. He looks so sweet and sad Chris wants to hug him until he feels better. “I have to go get a body composition test next week,” he says finally. “I’m just worried how it’s going to go, is all. And I’m thinking maybe we need to stop doing this, at least for now.” 

That little heart pang has a bigger, stronger brother, as it turns out. “What?” 

“I don’t have much time, I’ve gotta get in shape, and I’m starting to think…I don’t know. I’m just worried. You know how Marvel is. I’ve got all this stuff in my contract, I don’t want them to sue me, I’d never work again.” 

Chris looks at him, eyes roaming from his hint of a double chin – now present even when he’s not looking down – to his wide, soft chest and the slight outward curve of his belly, more pronounced now that he’s slouching a little. He still looks reasonably fit, but he’s right; if he keeps eating this way, he won’t be fit for long. And the thought of that, of Sebastian gaining a little more weight, of his belly pushing steadily outward toward his lap, sends little jolts to some very interesting places. 

He doesn’t want Sebastian to get fired, though, and as much as he enjoys their weekly brunch – more than he can easily admit, even to himself – it’s not worth it if it’s going to mean trouble with Marvel. And Sebastian is such a perfect, absolutely definitive Bucky; if he left, the whole franchise would suffer. 

And then it occurs to him. The whole franchise _would_ suffer. 

“Hey,” he says. “Have you ever thought about what Bucky would do, now that he’s out in the world, in the 21st century? Like wouldn’t he just love something like this, after living through the Depression and all?” Chris gestures to the restaurant, to the piles of food in front of them.

Sebastian perks right up, and he takes a sip of his creamy, sweet latte. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “In fact, I was just thinking, the other night, about how he’d probably never eat little stupid portions of chicken and vegetables if he could have lasagna, you know? Like who the fuck cares, right?” 

“Totally,” Chris says, warming to his theme. “Dude’s been through a lot. I don’t think he’s going to care about what he looks like.” And now Sebastian’s reaching for a biscuit, setting it on the side of his plate, scooping a generous pat of butter onto his knife. 

“I talked to Joe and Tony about that before the last shoot, actually. It’s why his hair was longer, why he looks so homeless. I mean, it serves a purpose, makes him harder to recognize, I guess, but at the same time, they agreed that he should look…I don’t know. Kind of neglected.” He bites into the copiously buttered biscuit and chews happily. 

“Right. So I’m just thinking…maybe you need to talk to them again? Because you’ve put a lot into that character, and they respect that, man. If you think maybe it would be better to take him in a different direction, maybe they should know, y’know?” 

Sebastian forks up a huge bite of steak and eggs and Chris’s heart frolics around in his chest like a happy puppy. “You think?” he asks, with his mouth full. 

“Yeah, man. I mean yeah, you don’t want to get sued, but it makes a ton of sense, and you know there’s this whole push to make the MCU more inclusive, right? More female characters, more people of color in every film. I’m just thinking…maybe we don’t all have to look the same, y’know? Like maybe it would be okay…” he swallows hard, can hardly believe he’s going to say this out loud, “if one of the characters was a little chubby?” 

“Or even fat, maybe?” Sebastian asks, not even flinching, just looking so hopeful, his wide blue eyes practically pleading. 

“Maybe,” Chris manages, and he feels absolutely breathless with excitement. “Is that,” he has to take a deep, steadying breath. “Is that something you’d even be interested in?” 

“Anything that doesn’t require me to eat pasty plain oatmeal for breakfast for the next year, I’m interested in.” He looks over at Chris’s plate, at his half-finished breakfast. “Are you gonna eat that?” 

Chris smiles hugely. “Nope.” 

Sebastian holds his plate up, and Chris transfers the rest of his food onto it. “You’re the best,” he says, and the smile he gets in return doesn’t remind him of Bucky at all. 

*

Okay, he can admit it now: this whole cheat day thing is getting a bit out of hand. He’d been so excited after brunch, he’d stopped for burgers on his way home. Then, too full to really feel like moving, he’d gone on GrubHub and ordered ice cream and a couple of frozen pizzas for later. 

Later had come and gone, and now he’s sitting on the sofa, leaning back, trying to get comfortable under the weight of all that food in his stomach, which bulges visibly, stretching out the front of his shirt in an impressive curve. 

God, he’s full. So full it hurts. He looks and feels like a beached whale, bloated, heavy, and full. He tugs the shirt down a little, but it slides back up. He lets his belly puff out to its full extent, then pushes it a little further, touches one hand to it as he inhales deeply and watches it grow outward with his breath. Most of this is food right now, but if he keeps this up…if he keeps this up. His brain starts to go a little fuzzy, and heat starts to build in his lower belly. He slides a hand down the front of his sweatpants, and – oh yeah – something about this is definitely getting him hot. 

If he keeps it up…it’ll all be him, before long. All him, a round, heavy swell of belly in front of him, sitting in his lap, getting in his way. He looks down at himself again, thinks about how eventually, he might not even be able to see his lap, how his jackets wouldn’t close, how he wouldn’t be able to fasten his jeans. How fat he might get, how swollen and heavy and full he’d be, and god, he’s such a pig, really, but it’s good, it’s just the _best,_ and then – 

_Here, eat this,_ says the version of Chris in Sebastian’s mind, sliding food onto his imaginary plate. _You’re the best._ Sebastian imagines himself eating it, imagines Chris telling him what a good job he’s doing, telling him how much he likes it, watching him clean his plate. Touching his round, stuffed gut, rubbing it in wide, slow circles, leaning forward and – oh - _oh, shit_.

He wraps his hand around his cock and instinctively tries to move his hips a little, but he can’t, he’s too full, and _Jesus_ that just turns him on even more. It’s only a few short strokes before he comes so hard and so long he isn’t even aware of the fact that he’s moaning, loud and shameless, a litany of “Oh god, oh god, oh god,” that dissolves into senseless gasping, leaving him feeling wrung out, ashamed, and exhilarated all at the same time. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s Wednesday, which means it’s pizza and Coke and zeppolis day, and Sebastian is currently perched on what he’s come to think of as his spot at the counter, digging into a spinach, feta, and bacon pie drenched in alfredo sauce—when his phone buzzes with a text from Chris. 

_So did you check with Tony and Joe?_

It makes Sebastian’s heart speed up, just a little, that Chris is asking about it. It’s not that it’s unheard of for Chris to text him; they had kept in touch, even before their Sunday brunch thing had started up. But still, this is such a direct question, like maybe Chris cares about it—is as fucking consumed by it—as Sebastian himself. It’s a heady thought. 

He wipes his greasy fingers and picks up the phone. _Yup. They were kinda into it I guess? But I still have to do that body comp analysis Friday._

_But they thought Bucky could be bigger?_

Sebastian stares at the screen, considering the question. They had been pretty open to the idea, considering, although Joe had just straight up laughed into the phone and said, “Bucky’s already softer than Captain America, have you seen _Civil War_?” Which—okay, accurate. So Sebastian had run with it, pointing out that there was already a precedent for Bucky to be a different build than, say, ripped-to-shreds Steve Rogers. He’d added some body diversity stuff into his pitch, because it made the argument seem much more noble than saying, “Here’s the thing, I really love playing Bucky but I also really love food, maybe especially when Chris Evans is handing it to me.” 

_They were open to it as long as I stay in the gym and keep letting the trainers oversee everything_ , he finally taps out. Which is true. It’s not exactly permission to go crazy—which is sort of what he’s doing right now, finishing off the last slice of pizza and digging into the breadsticks that he’d tacked onto today’s order—but it’s also not a warning that if he shows up in September looking less than perfectly stacked he’s going to be in breach of contract, either. 

And that’s the problem; it’s all kind of murky now. Joe and Tony had been fine with the idea that Bucky would, probably, eat some lasagna, maybe some takeout, and would probably be a little sleeker, a little softer around the edges, than Steve Look-At-All-Eight-Of-My-Abs Rogers. 

The problem is that, to be honest, Sebastian is already pretty much at that point right now. If he looks down, he can see the little pooch of his tummy beneath his t-shirt. And his cheeks. Shit. His fucking cheeks are full as hell already, and the double chin is in full effect, and Jesus Christ, the closeup shots are going to be brutal, he already knows it. 

So yeah, the Russos have technically signed off on a softer Bucky Barnes. The problem is that Sebastian is _already_ a softer Bucky Barnes, and there’s still a little over two months to go until shooting begins. That’s two months of Wednesday pizzas, and Sunday brunches, and late night Chinese delivery on his couch followed by desperate, equal-parts-guilt-and-pleasure jerkoff sessions. 

His phone buzzes again, and he shoves the last breadstick into his mouth before he picks it up and reads it. _That’s awesome, man._

_Yup_. And it is. It totally is. So Sebastian tries not to worry as he starts on the zeppolis.

*

“All right, you wanna go ahead and strip down?” The trainer’s assistant—god, what is her name? He should know her name, it makes him feel like a dick that he doesn’t remember it—looks at him expectantly.

Sebastian blinks, feeling his heart rate jump a little. No, no he is not ready to strip down. “Why? I thought you guys had the little magic machine where I hold onto it and it spits out a number.” This is true; he’s had his body composition done before, and that was totally how it had happened. Easy enough, although he is still dreading it. 

“That’s not nearly as accurate as calipers,” she says, wielding a set of tools that look like metal pincers. “Shirt off, so we can do your waist, and you can just roll your shorts up so I can get your thigh, too.”

Sebastian swallows. He probably wouldn’t have eaten Thai food last—kind of a lot of it, because pad thai is one of those things that just goes down really easily—if he’d known she was going to fucking pinch him with her medieval torture devices masquerading as medical tools. 

“Sure,” he mumbles, tugging his shirt over his head and sucking in, because what else can he do at this point. 

“Relax,” she says, tapping his belly lightly. “It won’t make a difference, anyway.” 

He frowns, but exhales, and his tummy rounds forward. She raises her eyebrows. Maybe he doesn’t care that he forgot her name, after all. 

She works quietly, pinching him at his sides, under his belly button (which seems particularly shitty and, like, who doesn’t have something pinchable there, Jesus), and his arms and thighs, punching each number into her tablet as she goes. 

“Okay, you’re at 24%,” she says. 

Sebastian looks at her. “That’s fine, then?”

She shrugs. “Are you supposed to have a six pack? Because that’s not gonna happen at 24%.” 

“I don’t think Bucky would have a six pack,” Sebastian says, thinking back to the first conversation he’d had about it, with Chris. Bucky would eat lasagna. It’s okay. 

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” she says, tapping him on the belly one more time. 

He’s definitely not sorry he forgot her name. 

*

“I got food,” Chris says as soon as Sebastian opens the door. He’s standing there, an enormous pizza box and a two-liter tucked under one perfectly, annoyingly muscular arm, giving Sebastian the world’s purest expression. 

“It’s not a cheat day,” Sebastian says, leading him into the apartment and flopping down on the couch. 

Chris frowns, setting the food down on the coffee table and sitting down. “I thought you weren’t having to be so careful about that stuff now?”

Sebastian shrugs, flipping open the pizza box and eyeballing the contents. The pie is smothered in meat, grease glistening in fragrant little pools across the top. Sausage, ham, pepperoni, bacon, salami. Literally nothing even remotely healthy here.

It looks amazing. 

“I mean, I guess I don’t?” he says, thinking back to the Thai food he’d had the night before, the Wednesday night pizza the day before that. Cheat _weeks_. He’s kind of had a cheat week. 

Chris picks up his remote and flips on the tv, casually proprietary, like Sebastian won’t care. And he doesn’t—why should he, when he’s currently biting into the meat-laden monstrosity that Chris had just handed him? 

“How did it go, the body composition thing?” Chris asks. 

Sebastian takes another huge bite, using his very full mouth as an excuse not to answer for a second. He flicks his eyes over at Chris, instead, who is very studiously watching the tv, like he gives a shit about the soccer match on the screen. 

He looks a little—nervous? 

“It was okay,” Sebastian says as soon as he swallows. “24%. They’re saying it probably shouldn’t go a whole lot higher than that, but Joe and Anthony did tell the trainers to dial back the whole diet thing, so.” He trails off, shoving another bite into his mouth. “I guess I can just keep doing what I’m doing.” 

Chris’s eyes bounce from the screen to Sebastian, and Sebastian feels himself flush, just a little. He takes another bite to smother the feeling. 

Chris clears his throat. “That’s great, man.” His voice sounds a little strangled. 

“You not eating?” Sebastian asks, gesturing toward the pizza box and reaching forward to grab a second piece, himself. 

“Not my cheat day,” Chris says, giving Sebastian a pretty little smile, toothy and radiant. “I ate before I came.”

Sebastian blinks. “So you just brought me a pizza.”

Chris crosses his arms over his chest, a weirdly protective gesture that Sebastian can’t quite get a read on. “I mean—if you’re not having to do all that strict food stuff right now, why not?” he says, eyes glued to the television again, even though this time it’s a car commercial, and Sebastian _knows_ that Chris doesn’t give a shit about the Acura onscreen. 

“Why not?” Sebastian repeats, and shoves another bite into his mouth. 

*

Sebastian finishes the pizza. Every last fucking slice, plus he puts a pretty good dent in the bottle of Coke, too. 

And the whole time, Chris just sits there next to him, flipping through channels, talking about random shit, both of them pretending there isn’t anything the least bit fucking weird about it. 

It’s so fucking weird. 

For one thing, Chris isn’t eating, because he already ate his healthy, normal action movie star meal before he came over. 

For another, Sebastian is so full he’s a little uncomfortable, and that actually makes him even more determined to finish the whole fucking thing. 

It’s like, in the back of his mind, is the idea that Chris brought him this food and so he _has_ to eat it, that he wants to eat it, that he wants to do this _for Chris_. 

And that’s probably the weirdest part of all. 

At least, it’s the weirdest part until he finally shoves down the last bite and leans back, resting his hand on the little swell of his gut, trying to catch his breath, trying to pretend he isn’t stuffed so full he’s practically panting, and Chris looks over at him, drops his eyes down to Sebastian’s bloated midsection, and then says, “Are you okay? You look—ah. Like that hurts. Your belly.” 

Sebastian stares up at him, and Chris’s handsome, perfect cheekbones are striped with a pink, hectic glow. 

*

Chris stares at Sebastian with abject, hopeless longing, taking in everything from his slightly flushed face, the shallow, hiccupping breaths that move his chest shallowly in and out, to his belly, where he rubs soothing circles with the heel of his hand. His belly. His gaze lingers on that tight, full roundness, on the crumpled waistband of his sweats, which have folded down beneath the beginnings of a gut. His sides are beginning to swell outward a little, too, hinting at a roll. 

Chris is hard as a rock, fixated, and completely, absolutely screwed. 

He hadn’t expected it, is the thing. He’d noticed that Sebastian was attractive, of course, but he’d been around plenty of beautiful people before, it wasn’t exactly a novelty. And sure, it had been a little harder to resist when they’d started filming _Winter Soldier_. He’d looked incredible in that movie, and the contrast between the sweet, confused vulnerability Sebastian had brought to the part, the vividly kinky wardrobe and his menacing physicality had been incredibly arousing. But still, not a big deal – Sebastian had been very, very pretty, but again, it wasn't unusual in their line of work.

Then _Civil War_ had started filming, and everything had changed. When Sebastian had showed up on set nearly forty pounds heavier than he had been in the previous film, Chris had stopped breathing for a full ten seconds. And now. Jesus, _now?_ Watching him practically inhale huge quantities of food at brunch every Sunday, knowing that he was going off the reservation during the week, cataloguing all the little changes in his body, the gradual expansion of every tempting curve? Sebastian is the living embodiment of his deepest, most shameful fantasies, and it’s driving Chris crazy. 

“Are you okay? You look—ah. Like that hurts. Your belly.” _You look amazing, you look like every goddamn jerk-off session I’ve ever had rolled into one beautiful perfect package, you look so round and soft and absolutely touchable I might actually die_. He’s blushing hard, he can feel the heat radiating from his face. 

“Well, yeah,” Sebastian says. “I probably overdid it a little.” He presses gently into the swell of his belly with both hands and looks at it incredulously. “Jesus. I look fucking fat.” 

“You look great,” the words are out of his mouth before he can even think about them. 

Sebastian tilts his head, gives him a look that’s part confusion, part disbelief. “I mean, look at this. I had some jeans from right before we started shooting last year – you remember, I was – I was up to two hundred for that.” His hesitation before naming the number makes Chris’s heart stutter. _Two hundred._ Chris had been around the same weight, but Sebastian had still looked huge by comparison. He wonders if it might’ve been more, and if so, how much more. Two-ten? Two-fifteen? “Anyway, I tried them on this morning, I couldn’t even get the button to close. My waist is already bigger than it was last year. It’s…you don’t think it’s too much?” 

Chris thinks it’s nowhere near enough, is what Chris thinks. “Nah,” is all he says. “You’re just full right now, that’s all.” 

“Some of this is me,” Sebastian says, pushing his fingertips against the lower swell, where his belly is peeking out from the bottom of his stretched-thin t-shirt. “A _lot_ of this is me.” He hiccups a little, burps into his closed fist. “Fuck. And a lot of it is pizza.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” Somehow, they seem to be getting closer together on the sofa. “To, um…help?” 

Sebastian’s eyes widen slightly. “Like what?” 

“Like…I don’t know. Alka-Seltzer? A hot water bottle?”

“I don’t have a hot water bottle.” 

“Oh.” There’s a long pause. Their eyes meet, and Chris’s hands tighten into fists in his lap. He wants to touch Sebastian’s belly so bad it’s like an ache, and he looks so goddamn adorable sitting there in his too-small t-shirt with his impossibly cherubic face, Chris wants to lean forward and kiss him as much as he’s ever wanted anything. He reaches out his hand, but before anything can happen, there’s a shrill buzzing sound and they both leap in their seats. 

Sebastian glances at the clock. “Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, shit. I forgot. It’s my trainer. He’s dropping off some stuff.” 

“Your trainer?” Chris asks. “What’s he dropping off? Want me to run down and pick it up?” 

Sebastian doesn’t answer right away, and in that brief silence, Chris thinks about what it would look like, him running down to the lobby to pick something up for Sebastian. It would look, he realizes, like they were sleeping together. 

“Nah, I’ll buzz him in. I haven’t talked to him for a while, he probably wants to go over the body comp stuff.” He heaves himself up with some difficulty, cradling his belly gingerly as he makes his way over to the door and hits the buzzer. 

Chris watches him, admiring the way the sweatpants let his ass jiggle just that little extra bit, the way the t-shirt emphasizes the roundness of his belly, how it’s threatening to slope into a roll on his back. His pecs look pudgy, too, and soft, starting to settle on top of his belly a little, and when Sebastian turns to the side to open the door, Chris can see just how far his belly is sticking out, swollen and full. He looks amazing, and suddenly Chris knows he’s not going to be able to stand up, not yet. He crosses his legs, tries to think of something –anything – that might shake his seemingly permanent hard-on. 

There’s a soft knock at the door, and Sebastian swings it open. His trainer is there, looking tan and fit, a flat cardboard box balanced across one brawny forearm. He glances at Sebastian, then sees Chris and smiles, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Oh,” he says. “Hi.” 

“Hey,” Chris says. He’s never met Sebastian’s trainer before, and he knows he should just get up and go over there, shake hands, introduce himself, but that is just not going to happen right now. 

“You know Chris, right?” Sebastian asks, and then the issue is moot, because as soon as he sees Sebastian, his trainer nearly drops the box he’s carrying. He sets it down on the counter and takes Sebastian by the shoulders. 

“Oh whoa. Oh, holy fuck. Look at you,” he says, staring at Sebastian in dismay. “Jesus Christ, when she told me you clocked in at 24% I thought she was fucking with me or something. Jesus, look at this.” He takes Sebastian’s incipient belly between his hands and jostles it, which nearly makes Sebastian double over, and absolutely makes Chris feel almost livid with jealousy. 

Sebastian starts explaining the conversation with the Russos, his thoughts about the character, but the trainer’s not even listening, he pulls up Sebastian’s t-shirt and pokes him in the belly experimentally, and _god,_ Chris has never felt so pissed off and turned on at the same time. He gets a fleeting glimpse of pale, swollen belly and softly expanding love handles before he pulls the t-shirt back down again.

“I can’t believe this. Holy shit, you look pudgy.”

“I know,” Sebastian says shyly, laying one hand almost protectively over his stomach. 

“Jesus,” the trainer says again, looking Seb up and down. “How much do you even weigh right now? When did you last weigh in?” 

“Yesterday,” Sebastian says. “199.” 

“Well, you look it.” The more the trainer harps on it, Chris notices, the more flustered Sebastian seems to get, starting guiltily, glancing at Chris, a pretty blush staining the tops of his rounder cheeks. “And you seriously think you need to get bigger?” 

“Well…yeah? I mean…” he shrugs self-consciously, glances at Chris again, back at the trainer. “I’m just trying to get into the guy’s head, you know? And it helps. _This_ helps.” He pats his belly. 

“All right,” the trainer sighs resignedly. “But slow and steady, okay? And I want your fat ass in the gym bright and early, because we’re throwing a seriously layer of muscle under all this fucking chub, understand?” 

“Right, okay,” Sebastian says. “Will do.” 

As the trainer explains the contents of the Tupperware boxes and Sebastian nods, one hand surreptitiously cradling his too-full gut, a little sheen of sweat on his forehead, Chris realizes something he should’ve cottoned onto days, maybe even weeks ago. Sebastian _likes_ being pushed around a little. He likes being teased, even. Chris looks at his face every time the insensitive clod of a trainer says something shaming, and he can see it, all of it, plain as day on Sebastian’s pretty, expressive face. 

“Look at these love handles, for fuck’s sake,” he says, and Sebastian looks obediently down to where the trainer’s finger pokes into the puffy flesh over his hip, biting his full lower lip.

“What’d you eat today, man, you’ve practically got a potbelly going on,” he adds, and the faint blush on Sebastian’s cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. 

Hot on the heels of the first realization is a second: Chris wants to be the one teasing Sebastian. He wants to touch his softening body, tease him, make him blush, bring him food and boss him around a little, maybe even feed him, see how much he can take. He’d like to….well, he’d like to do all of that. Yes. He would. 

What the _hell_ is the matter with him? 

“I…” he starts to say, and Sebastian and the trainer both turn to look at him. “I have to go,” he says hurriedly, standing, grabbing his jacket and holding it in front of himself. “Sorry. I – I have a thing. I forgot. Seb, I’ll see you on Sunday, okay?” He’s out the door before either of them can say anything. He’s practically vibrating by the time he gets to the elevator, so hard it hurts by the time he lands on the ground floor. He sprints across the lobby to the men’s room, slams into the first stall, fumbling at his zipper, struggling to free himself and lock the door at the same time. 

His dick jumps as soon as he touches it, hot and flushed and aching, and he spits into his palm, wraps his hand around himself and pumps, picturing Seb eating that fucking pizza, his hand on his gut as it filled up, the little sliver of flesh visible beneath the hem of his t-shirt, the way he’d touched it, the _teasing,_ fuck, the way Sebastian ate like it was his mission, shoving that whole pizza determinedly into his mouth, all of it going into his belly,  _sweet Christ_ his round, beautiful, perfect – oh _Jesus,_ Jesus _fuck_ -

He comes hard, nearly doubling over, harsh breaths loud in the small space, his cock pulsing so hard it’s almost painful, and he’s been holding it back on some level all evening, so it just seems to go on and on and on, he just keeps on coming until he thinks he might pass out if he doesn’t stop soon. 

“God,” he says out loud, finally, and then he laughs a little, because honestly, this is ridiculous. “Get a grip, Evans,” he adds shakily, as he cleans himself off and zips his jeans back up. “Get a fucking grip.” 

*

Sebastian doesn’t hear from Chris for the rest of the week. 

He tries not to worry; they have a standing date, after all, and the last thing Chris had said was _see you Sunday,_ but as each new evening passes with no message, he can’t really help it. He’s worried. 

He starts a few texts - _everything okay?_ and _we still on for Sunday?_ \- but it all feels too pushy or too needy or too – oh, he doesn’t even know. He deletes them. He distracts himself with television, work, music, and of course, food. 

On Thursday he goes to the gym as promised, suffers through a grueling workout, has a healthy breakfast of egg whites and spinach, oatmeal and blueberries in the café, then stops for a dozen donuts on the way home and eats them, one by one, parked in front of the television. He orders Indian food for lunch – a double order of butter chicken, an appetizer platter, some of the cold, creamy rice pudding that tastes like it’s made with heavy cream (and probably is). He opens one of the prepared meals his trainer had brought over for dinner, looks at it, closes it and replaces it in the fridge. Then he orders a platter from Tacos Morelos, with extra churros. 

Friday, he’s supposed to go to the pool and swim laps, but he wakes up still feeling full from the night before, and punches the snooze alarm six times before getting up and doing more or less the exact same thing he’d done on Thursday, minus the workout. And then again on Saturday, except that he decides to order pizza instead of tacos. 

He rounds out the evening with a pint of chocolate milk, rolling down the waistband of his sweats to give his packed-full belly some extra room. And god, does it need it. After three whole days of this, it sticks out in front of him, full and round and aching, and he wishes Chris were here, wishes he could see it. 

Because the thing is, he’s pretty sure Chris likes it, likes him being bigger, likes the idea of him gaining weight. Likes watching him eat, likes staring at his belly afterward, and wants to…what, exactly? Touch it? Touch _him?_ Do _something,_ Sebastian’s sure, and he desperately wants whatever it is to happen, and soon.

But the text message doesn’t come. 

*

Sebastian wakes up on the sofa late on Sunday morning. He shoves his hair out of his eyes and looks around for the noise that had just woken him, but then it comes again. It’s the door buzzer. He rubs a hand along his belly, which still feel swollen, and tugs his sweatpants up a little higher on his hips.

He shoves himself up with a grunt, goes to the panel by the door. “Yeah?” he rasps into the speaker. 

“It’s Chris,” says Chris. “Let me up?” Oh god. Oh _god,_ what is he doing here? Sebastian looks around the room, at the mess of boxes, then down at himself, at the rumpled, pizza-stained t-shirt riding up on his gut. He hesitates, places his finger on the button, and finally presses it, heart pounding.

He hurries around the room, gathers all the boxes and piles them on the balcony, out of sight. Then he splashes cold water on his face, tugs his shirt down as best he can over his belly, and hurries to the door just as he hears Chris’s knock. 

Chris is standing there in the hall, looking neat and handsome and slim in a smart leather jacket and jeans, a large paper bag in each hand. He hefts the bags and smiles a full-wattage Hollywood smile, all white teeth and crinkly eyes and charm. “I thought we might eat in today,” he says. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for now, Dear Readers--but if this is your cup of tea, rest assured that we plan to make it a series, adding to it whenever inspiration strikes. (And, let's be real, Sebastian Stan is a one-man-kink-inspiration-band. We're sure it will happen. Give him time.) 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and being fantastic.

Sebastian looks like a goddamn wet dream.

His clothes do not fucking fit, for one thing. His sweats are digging into his hips, and his t-shirt—which, just to drive home the point that Seb has been eating himself stupid lately, is stained by something that looks suspiciously like marinara sauce—clings to him, riding up to expose an inch of pale, bloated tummy. His hair is rumpled, and there’s a crease mark on his chubby cheek that means he was asleep until Chris buzzed him. 

“So, is that okay? Eating here?” Chris says, clearing his throat. He’s not sure what to say, now that he’s here. He wishes there were an appropriate way to say, _Hey, listen. I want to tell you the same shit your asshole trainer says. Except I want to say it because I think you’re fucking gorgeous, but telling you that you got fat makes my dick so hard I can’t breathe._

He’s pretty sure there’s not any appropriate way to tell someone that. 

“Uh, yeah,” Sebastian says, shaking his head a little, like he’s trying to clear it, and gesturing for him to following him inside. 

When Sebastian turns to the side, it’s obvious how swollen his gut is. Chris inhales sharply enough that it’s audible in the quiet apartment, and Sebastian jerks his head up. 

“What?” he asks, his eyes wide and a little desperate, like he already knows what Chris is thinking. 

“You—you look like you already ate, Seb,” Chris says, because fuck it, this is what he wants to do, and he is almost completely certain that it’s what _Sebastian_ wants him to do, too. Chris sets the carryout bags down on the coffee table and reaches out, pokes a finger right into the roundest part of Sebastian’s bloated little paunch, then quickly runs his hand down and taps lightly, just once, on the exposed chub between his t-shirt hem and his sweats. 

Sebastian swallows, his throat clicking with the effort. “Uh—it was kind of a full weekend,” he mumbles, and his cheeks pink up immediately. 

“Hmm. Looks like it. Pizza?” Chris asks, tracing the little red stains that dot his t-shirt over his chubby pec. 

“Oh, um—yeah, I ordered one last night,” Sebastian says, shuffling a little. His expression is abashed, maybe embarrassed, but his eyes are bright with something else, something more intent, more focused, too. 

He looks so tentative, and so trusting, and Chris begins to think that, if he asked, Seb would try his damnedest to do whatever the hell Chris told him to do. _Eat the rest of my waffles. Drink this champagne. Order dessert. Eat this entire extra large pizza while I sit on your couch and pretend I’m not getting off on every bite you shove into your pretty mouth._

Chris hopes—nearly prays—that he’s reading the situation right. “Well, you still have to eat this,” he says, nodding toward the packages on the coffee table. “It’s Sunday.” He pitches his voice carefully, so fucking carefully, so that it’s just a little more than neutral. Not quite a command, but certainly not a request. 

Sebastian runs a hand over his stomach, biting his lip and nodding, before he plops heavily down on the couch. Sitting down makes his tummy pooch out more, an honest to god little beer belly rounding out his t-shirt and settling over the waistband of his overtaxed sweats. He looks _soft_ , his cheeks fluffy and rounded, his chin cushioned with fat, his chest broad and soft. He looks soft everywhere _except_ the upper curve of his belly, which is swollen and taut as a drum—Chris knows because he felt it and was shocked by how full it was under the pudge Sebastian’s carrying around now. 

“What did you bring?” he asks, looking up at Chris, eyes still so heartbreakingly wide that Chris aches to just grab his pudgy jaw in his hand and kiss him senseless. He doesn’t, though; that’s not what he really wants _yet_. He wants to do this—tell Seb what to do, tell him to eat everything he brought and then tease him for doing it—first. 

God it’s fucked up, and Chris wants it so bad his dick is already shoved up painfully against his fly, and he sits down quickly next to Sebastian in an attempt to, maybe, not look like a fucking teenager with a boner on his first date. 

Chris leans forward and starts pulling shit out of the bags. “It’s from Estelle’s,” he says, producing an entire quiche made with sausage and three kinds of cheese; a dozen croissants; a handful of little foil packets of butter that Chris had asked for special because he’s a shameless pervert with no boundaries and he’s watched Seb slather butter on everything he’s eaten for the last month; a package of sliced fruit, another of fresh whipped cream. 

There are plates and utensils in the bag, but he doesn’t hand Sebastian a plate. He just cuts a single slice of quiche for himself and then hands the tin over, along with a fork. 

“Jesus,” Sebastian groans, looking from the quiche up to Chris and making a face. “You think I can eat this whole thing?” 

“Not like you’re missing any meals lately, Seb,” Chris says, keeping eye contact until Sebastian flushes anew.

“I know, man,” Sebastian says, running a hand along the curve of his belly again, almost unconsciously, like he’s verifying that yes, he really has gotten this fucking chunky. “I’m—uh, I probably went a little overboard the last couple of days.”

Despite the little token protests, despite the hand nervously fluttering over his fat little gut, Sebastian starts eating immediately, with the same mindless kind of intensity he always brings to the table. And Jesus, he looks _big_ , and Chris can’t help but stare. He doesn’t even bother trying not to, not really. Not with the way Sebastian was blushing, not with the conversation they’d had earlier in the week, when Seb had eaten that entire fucking pizza for him. 

For Chris. He’d eaten for Chris. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a thrill. 

“So,” Seb says thickly, speaking around a mouthful of food, “what’s been up lately?” He flashes his eyes up to Chris’s face, a furtive little glance, and Chris wonders if what Sebastian’s really asking is why he didn’t text or call all week, why he basically ran the fuck out of Sebastian’s apartment like it was on fire after his trainer showed up, after Chris had watched Sebastian get prodded and poked and teased about how fat he was getting. 

If that’s what Sebastian’s asking, the answer is something like this: _Well, mostly I’ve been killing myself at the gym as a distraction, but it doesn’t work, so then I go home and jerk myself raw, thinking about the way you blush when someone tells you you’re getting fucking fat. Or, if I wanna mix it up a little on the next round, I think about how your body comp came back at 24%, which means you have, basically, fifty pounds of chub clinging to you, and Jesus fucking Christ, Seb, I think it’s higher now, you look like you’re about to fucking pop._

“Not much, man. Just the usual.” 

Sebastian nods, shoveling another bite in his mouth. 

“Want me to make coffee?” Chris asks, looking toward the kitchen. “I shoulda brought drinks, but I couldn’t carry them plus all the food.” It’s a subtle dig, but Sebastian looks adorably flustered, so Chris knows it lands. 

“Um, yeah—the coffee pot’s by the sink. Coffee’s in the cabinet above it.” Sebastian looks up at him, pausing between bites. “Thanks—uh, for bringing this and everything.”

Chris shrugs, setting his own plate—which, to be honest, he’s mostly just holding for show—on the coffee table and heading for the kitchen. “Well, it’s Cheat Day. Don’t want to miss that.” 

Sebastian croaks out a little laugh, smothering it with another huge bite. “I think I had a Cheat Week.”

Chris doesn’t even turn around. “Yeah, you look like it, bud.” He puts coffee on and then peers into Sebastian’s fridge, grabbing a bottle of apple juice—fucking apple juice, seriously?—and heading back into the living room. “Thirsty?” he asks, handing it over. “Coffee will be a minute.” 

Sebastian shrugs and accepts it, setting his fork down to drink juice straight from the bottle, which makes Chris’s already throbbing cock lurch painfully. 

*

Sebastian’s stomach is pulsing by the time he finishes the quiche, and he’s not sure he ever wants to see eggs again, but he butters a croissant and shoves about half of it into his mouth at once. He feels _full_ , painful and bloated, and it’s no surprise. He’s been stuffing himself for days, eating far beyond fullness or sanity, and now he’s doing it for _Chris_. It’s crazy, but that’s how it feels—like Chris brought him this food, and that all Sebastian wants is to do what Chris wants. Eat everything he’s brought, everything he’s handed to Sebastian, every last goddamn bite. 

He’s fuller than he’s ever been, though. He’s sweaty, hot and uncomfortable, and his stomach is swollen so tight it’s hard to take even a shallow breath. 

“I can’t,” he finally says, setting the last croissant down and just cradling his belly. “I’m done, I’m out, Jesus, I can’t move.” 

Chris gives him a speculative look, vaguely predatory, and Sebastian suddenly feels even more pinned to the sofa than he had before, now caught in Chris’s gaze and under the weight of his own overfed gut. 

“That looks like it hurts,” Chris says, reaching out and tapping lightly on the dome of Sebastian’s tummy, bloated up full and round. 

Sebastian groans, “God, why did I eat that much?” 

“Because I wanted you to.”

Sebastian jerks, wincing when it jostles his tender, achy belly. He looks up at Chris, and Chris is looking right back at him, blue eyes clear and intense, absolutely direct. He looks, in that moment, weirdly like Steve Rogers. Brave as hell, and completely without apologies. 

“You—you want me to.” Even to his own ears, Sebastian’s voice sounds thin, almost a whisper. “Why? I eat like a pig every time you’re around—“

Before he can finish the sentence, Chris is all up in his space, one muscular arm braced on the back of the sofa, the other pinching gently at Sebastian’s stomach, which is exposed to the navel now. “Yes. Yes, you fucking do. You’re fatter every time I see you, and you have no idea-- _no fucking idea_ \--what it does to me every week, watching you stuff yourself stupid.”

Sebastian feels his cheeks heating up even more, burning with shame and embarrassment and—oh Jesus fuck—more arousal than he thinks he’s ever felt in his whole fucking life. “What?” he chokes out, looking up at Chris, not moving a muscle, trapped under Chris and his stuffed gut and the weight of his own desire. “What does it do to you?”

Chris snorts, cupping Sebastian’s tummy and giving it a jiggle, which is both painful and incredibly, mind-blowingly perfect. “What does it do to me? _Christ_ , Seb, it drives me fucking crazy. You’re getting so goddamned fat, you know it? And every time I watch you shove something down your throat like you haven’t seen food all week—and I know you have, I know you’re ordering fucking pizzas and shit all week long, look at this _gut_ , Seb, everyone knows—all I want to do is put my fucking hands on it, put my hands on _you_ , fuck.”

“I want you to,” Sebastian breathes. 

“Want me to touch you?” Chris asks, sliding his hand from the lower curve of Sebastian’s tummy over to his side, the chub that’s swelling over the edge of his sweats. He pinches, gripping it tight, not quite painful but enough that Sebastian groans, squirming. Chris smiles a little, like he can tell how much Sebastian likes it, that edge of pleasure-pain, and he slides a muscular thigh over Sebastian’s lap and straddles him, crotch flush against Sebastian’s swollen belly. “Because I want to, Seb. Jesus, I want to touch you everywhere. Want to fuck you, _Christ_ , want to pound you into the goddamn mattress, you drive me crazy.” 

Sebastian swallows again, pushing his belly up against Chris, reaching out until his hands are resting on Chris’s slim hips, and he wants to say something—anything, any version of _yes, god, please_ , but before he can even get the words out, Chris is cupping his chin, bringing his mouth down onto Sebastian’s and kissing him, hot and slow and dirty. 

“But I can’t, can I?” Chris asks, right up against Sebastian’s mouth. “You couldn’t ride my cock right now. You couldn’t even just lie there and let me put your legs up on my shoulders and fuck you missionary, could you?” He pokes Sebastian in the belly again. “Not when you’re stuffed so full you can’t catch your breath.” 

“N-no,” Sebastian hiccups. “God, no, I can’t.” 

“C’mon,” Chris says, taking him by the hand and ignoring his groan of protest as he pulls him to his feet. “Let’s get you horizontal.” He shoves Sebastian ahead of him, aiming him at the bedroom.

“Oh, god,” Sebastian gasps, as he falls back into bed. Lying down really does help, even though he can now feel just how heavy it is, all that food pushing down on him directly. He has no idea what Chris is going to do until he does it. He climbs onto the bed, straddling Sebastian’s legs, then, lightly, almost hesitantly, he cups his belly in both warm hands, his palms curving like they were made to fit, just so. 

Sebastian thinks he might faint with happiness. 

“How’s that?” Chris asks, pressing gently into his soft skin with his fingertips. 

“It feels fucking amazing,” Sebastian says. He still can’t catch his breath; it’s too much, too many things to feel all at once. Both his belly and his cock are achingly full, like they’re connected, and both are burning for Chris to touch them. He shifts his hips a little under the combined weight of Chris and his belly, and the resulting friction feels like lit gunpowder racing along his spine. 

Slowly, gradually, Chris starts to move his hands, to rub gently into the swell, and it feels so good that all Sebastian can do is let his head drop back and his eyes close and just _let_ him. 

“Look at your pecs,” Chris says softly, running his hands over the wide, soft expanse of Sebastian’s chest. His nipples perk right up, going rigid against the soft fabric of the t-shirt. “Jesus. You’ve got a little pudge there, even. That’s not just from today, you know.” 

“I know,” Sebastian says. He feels helpless and desperately turned on, and each small, circular movement feels like relief and torture, all at the same time. And the more Sebastian relaxes under the movement of his hands, the more Chris gets into it, working little circles into the span of his tummy with a carefulness belied by his teasing words. 

Then his hand slides down lower, to his dick, which is practically trembling by now, and it twitches as Chris slides a hand down the waistband of Sebastian’s sweats, brushing up against the sensitive flesh. 

“Oh,” Sebastian breathes, “Oh _god,_ Chris, oh – _oh_ fuck - ”

“Not yet,” Chris says, instantly removing his hand, replacing it on Sebastian’s belly, leaning forward to kiss him again, hard and demanding. Sebastian kisses him back, opens his mouth to Chris’s tongue, moans into his mouth. “Jesus,” Chris says, pulling back, and for the first time, Sebastian can see how shaken he is, how incredibly turned on, his blue eyes almost all black, his pupils are so wide with pleasure. 

Chris sets his jaw and tugs on Sebastian’s shirt. “Let’s get you out of this,” he says, shoving it up and over his belly. Sebastian sits up with a grunt, just long enough for the shirt to slide off overhead, but Chris is already tugging his sweats and boxers down, Sebastian struggling to lift his hips to facilitate. He pants as he kicks his legs free and lies there, naked, letting Chris look at him, not really wanting to think about what he’s seeing. 

“Remember how tiny your waist was?” Chris says, and Sebastian is incredibly conscious of the fact that he’s still completely dressed, the denim of his jeans rough against Sebastian’s skin. Chris puts his hands back on Sebastian’s tummy, prodding and squeezing. “You couldn’t even get your costume to close over this, not any more. Not that strappy little jacket. Maybe the ski jacket. _Maybe._ ” His hands slip lower again, and Sebastian sighs as his hand wraps around his cock again. 

“It was really tight at the bottom,” Sebastian bites out. “It was m - made to measure.” His teeth clatter together, his nerves so strung out he’s shivering. 

“So not even that, then.” 

“Probably not.” 

“And why is that, Seb? Tell me, or I’ll stop touching you.” 

He can feel his face burn with humiliation, but he makes himself spit it out anyway. “Got too fat for it. _Please,_ please don’t stop.” 

“Be good and I won’t have to. You really _are_ getting fat. Look at this.” He holds Sebastian’s belly between his hands, and it really does look huge, so full and bloated he looks pregnant. “So heavy. And this is just a preview of coming attractions, isn’t it? You keep going the way you’re going, it’s just going to get bigger.” 

“I know,” Sebastian says. “I know, and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it.” 

“Because you like it,” Chris murmurs. “Don’t you?” 

“I – I like it,” Sebastian manages, and god, the things Chris is doing, kissing the plump lower slope of his belly, sliding his tongue into his navel, a hand working his cock while the other sides between his thighs to cradle his balls, and the more he thinks about it, the hotter it is, Chris, so turned on by him, by the sight and feel of his round belly, his pudgy pecs, his fucking double chin, all of it, and it takes every ounce of self-control he has not to push up against Chris’s hands, his mouth, to let the flood of pleasure come. It’s almost unbearable, being touched this way, being completely naked and exposed while Chris is fully dressed, looking clean and fresh in his white t-shirt, so trim and perfect and ungodly handsome. He bites down on his lower lip and clenches his fists into the bedspread, trying not to let his hips snap up, trying not to think about coming. 

“You’re doing so good, Sebby,” Chris says, his breath warm on Sebastian’s skin. Then – oh _jesusfuckinggod_ – Chris’s mouth closes over the head of his cock in a filthy kiss, just one wet, pulsing suck, then gone. It takes Sebastian’s breath away; he feels like he’s just been punched. “Count to ten,” Chris says. “Then you can come.” And he swallows Sebastian’s dick all the way to the back of his throat, swallowing around him, sucking hard. 

It’s the longest ten seconds of Sebastian’s life. _One, two,_ and Chris’s teeth scrape the fleshy tip of his cock, sending nerves pinging all over his body. _Three, four,_ and his hips jerk involuntarily, making his full belly jiggle under Chris’s steadying hand. _Five, six, seven,_ and he’s not going to make it, it’s so good, _so_ good, and Chris, damn him, laps up hard along the underside of his dick with his tongue, why would he do that, _why,_ he must know how hard – how fucking hard- oh _god_ _eight, nine_ and then _sweet merciful god_ he holds on just a little longer, because he wants to be good - _ten, eleven -_

And then he’s coming apart, squeezing his eyes shut so hard he can feel tears forming at the corners, belly quivering with the force of his orgasm, his whole body devoted to the single action of _coming_ , so hard it actually hurts a little, like being so full he can’t eat another bite, like the agony of Chris pressing up against his stuffed gut with his strong hands. 

Once he’s well and truly done, limp and wrung out and so completely sated he feels stoned, Chris wraps himself around him, pulls his head against his strong, perfect chest. For a long time, Sebastian is silent, fighting to get his breath back. His lungs are working like a bellows, his chest and belly heaving with the effort, and Chris rests a hand on his round middle, starting to rub again, soothingly, until they’re both still.

“That was so good, Sebby,” he says. “You were perfect.” 

*

Sebastian is so perfectly adorable, face still flushed, hair tousled, his lower lip red and wet where he’d bitten it, riding the edge of his orgasm. And his belly – god – it looks so round and perfect, that full, fat little swell, Chris can’t keep his hands off it. 

It feels so transgressive, what they’re doing, particularly in light of how they both earn a living, and the fact that Sebastian is willingly – even eagerly – risking that, just to please him? It’s goddamn breathtaking. And incredibly, searingly hot. 

“You’re still dressed,” Sebastian murmurs, plucking at his shirt. 

“You want me to take this off?” Chris asks. Sebastian nods a little blearily, his wide eyes hazy. Chris strips off his shirt in a single, fluid motion. Sebastian stares at him, which – not that Chris is narcissistic about it or anything – is a fairly common reaction. He works fucking hard to maintain a Steve Rogers-worthy level of fitness. 

Sebastian’s seen him with his shirt off before, but not like this, and he’s never touched him like this, his hands gentle and tentative, thumbs sliding over his flat pink nipples, his lips feather-light on his skin. And god, his lips, his mouth - Sebastian’s mouth is unbelievable, kissing him had made Chris feel like he was losing his damn mind. He must give absolutely mind-blowing head. He’s thought about it before, like millions of other people undoubtedly have, and suddenly, he really doesn’t feel like waiting for it for another minute. 

“C’mon,” he says, sitting up and unbuckling his belt, shucking off his jeans and boxers and kicking them off the side of the bed. “Open your mouth for me, baby.” Which Sebastian does, and Chris feeds him his cock, slowly, straddling his face and sinking down just far enough, one hand braced against the headboard of the bed, the other sinking into Sebastian’s hair. 

Coherent thought becomes impossible as soon as Sebastian’s lips close around him; his mouth is soft and hot and wet, his tongue pressing firmly up against Chris’s cock, twisting around the head, dipping into the slit and then stroking him hard on the way back down. _Amazing_ doesn’t even begin to describe it; it’s exquisite, like Sebastian was born to do this, like his mouth was made for Chris’s cock, and it hardly takes any time at all before he feels the bone-deep quiver starting at the base of his spine. 

“Oh, _fuck,_ he groans, “Oh – oh _Jesus,_ Seb, that’s – that’s _so_ good, that’s – oh _Christ,_ oh - _oh_ -” and then he loses it in the blaring white noise of orgasm, hips and cock jerking, and Sebastian – bless him – doesn’t pull free, he just takes it, takes it all, lips closed around him, sucking him down and down and down until he collapses forward, both hands clinging to the headboard, spent. 

Little aftershocks are still shaking through him as he lets himself roll sideways off of Sebastian, who turns on his side carefully, full belly nudging against Chris’s flat abs, a sensation that makes Chris feel almost radiantly content. He’s so _soft,_ and Chris wiggles a little, pulling Sebastian’s face close, kissing his forehead, his nose, his gorgeous, sweet mouth, scooting closer, squishing into that welcoming softness just a little more. 

“Did that actually just happen?” Sebastian asks, his voice muffled a little against Chris’s neck. 

“Yeah, I think it fucking did,” Chris says, laughing a little. 

“So now what do we do?” 

Chris looks down at him, taking in the pretty view: Sebastian’s messy hair tickling his neck and chin, the round, firm belly pressing against him so sweetly, the soft little curve of his pecs. It’s the nicest thing he’s seen in a long time, and he smiles. 

“Well, it’s still Cheat Day,” he says. “So I think we can do whatever we want.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments are lovely, appreciated, and make us want to write more trash.
> 
> Expect updates bi-weekly-ish, and feel free to come hang out with us on tumblr at [missjanedoeeyes](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com) and [delightfulexcess](http://d-lightfulexcess.tumblr.com), where we talk about this kind of filth pretty much daily.


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